


Black Eyes

by Casemaker



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 15:10:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15799080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casemaker/pseuds/Casemaker
Summary: He touches her spindly arm, a wicked smile on his face.





	Black Eyes

The esteemed guests clamor and clap, their robes and jewellry jingling together in the great hall.

Her caged face looks back at them, thin and sickly through the aurora veil. She bows, though her knees are tired and her back aches greatly. She had been dancing for hours at this point. The Pontiff does not know, nor does he truly care.

He is at the front of the crowd, his own robes more glorious and extravagant than the guests'. His thin, golden crown, alike to the roots of a tree, glints in the candle-light. His black eyes stare her down. The ring on her finger pulses, but she's too weary to notice. Her spindly limbs float through the air, as if carried by water, when she resumes dancing. The hounding gaze of the Pontiff urges and demands her to continue.

 

It is a private display when the Pontiff presents her with two swords. He is genteel and deliberate. Her armor feels tight when she takes the swords from his hands, watching them ignite in her own. Amber and violet—profaned and moon-bound. He touches her spindly arm, a wicked smile on his face.

His black eyes hound her yet she has no will to shrink away. She thinks of Vordt.

 

When she calls upon a profaned fire from her heart and presses it into the ground, igniting the marble around her in a delicate flame, the crowd gasps and claps even louder. Her swords trail through the air, spinning with great speed as she dizzies herself.

The Pontiff watches quietly, smiling.

His black eyes leak into her soul, into her dance, and she can feel her armor pressing and embedding itself into her delicate, milky skin.

 

It is nothing but dark. A cold, eerie darkness that is nothing like Irithyll. She is surrounded by emptiness.

The sudden pull from that emptiness wakes her, and she thrashes, her eyes closed, her heart beating wildly, her thin limbs flailing as she tries to wrench herself free.

She lands, ever graceful, and wrapped in her delicate, holy veil. She feels her sword, her precious, profaned sword, will itself into her grasp.

 

The Pontiff's black eyes command her.


End file.
